The Third Directive
by Jee oto ta Huttuk koga
Summary: Takes place immediately after CA:TWS. HYDRA has fallen, but the Winter Soldier is not free of its final orders. No slash or romantic pairings; Brief flashbacks of torture and a strongly implied sexual assault (ch. 4). Story continues in "Simple Conversation."
1. Chapter 1

**AN: An experiment in trying to think like the Winter Soldier that grew into something. **

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Blunt trauma to head, undetermined damage. Crushing injury to neck and trachea. Airway currently uncompromised. Right shoulder dislocated, possible fracture. Extensive blunt trauma to midsection, possible internal injuries. Immediate blood loss within functional (sub-optimal) parameters. Crushing injury to upper legs, undetermined damage. Mobility approximately 35% of capacity. Defensive capability unknown. Prosthetic arm functional.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

In progress.

He staggered several yards to a line of woody brush and crouched to conceal himself. The bones ground in his injured shoulder when he moved, but he chose to ignore it for now. HYDRA would do so much worse than break his arm when they found him. He'd jumped into the river and rescued his target. They would demand to know why he hadn't fulfilled his mission by simply allowing the target to drown? Why didn't he call for immediate extraction?

_I knew him. _It was the only fragment of an answer that he had, no matter how insufficient it was.

**_Directive Three: REPORT TO ALTERNATE RENDEZVOUS POINT_**

Unable to comply.

The activation of the third directive seized the breath from his chest. Every fiber in his body strained to resist a sudden, overwhelming compulsion to proceed to the appointed secondary rendezvous point and surrender. _He reached for the man in the white coat who was burning his shoulder with a tool that shot sparks, and he was bleeding, but there were straps and he was so unbearably _cold. He'd failed his mission and had disobeyed HYDRA, was still disobeying, even though the punishment made him claw at the ground and bite his lip to maintain silence.

_I knew him. _He'd felt so…sick…after he'd watched Kaptain Amerika fall into the river.At first he'd jumped after him to ensure the mission was complete. But when his hand, his real hand, contacted the target's uniform, something deeply buried stirred inside him, and he could no more let Kaptain Amerika drown than he could allow himself to drown.

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Reevaluation. Mobility approximately 18% of capacity. Defensive capability unknown.

Better concealment was a priority. He was still too close to the river, close enough to see the flames and columns of oily black smoke that billowed from the destroyed helicarrier. Rescue personnel would surely be arriving soon, but he risked a single long look at where Kaptain Amerika still lay helpless, heaving water from his lungs. _Who is he__?_ he asked himself, crushing the unexpected urge to break cover and roll Kaptain Amerika over onto his side. _ Who is he? Who is he?_

Approaching sirens left him no more time to think. He climbed to his feet with difficulty, and broke into an unsteady run.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

In progress.

Without the imposed timetable of a mission, he wasn't certain how many hours had passed since he'd fled the riverbank, but the shadows were beginning to lengthen. He'd managed to avoid detection so far by using basic observation/movement drill methods. There was an alley ahead. He didn't think it was secure, but his physical condition was deteriorating. He hoped the coming darkness would provide enough cover for him to…

**_Directive Three: REPORT TO ALTERNATE RENDEZVOUS POINT_**

Unable to comply.

He plunged into the alley, lurched against the concrete side of the building, and allowed it to guide his body to the ground. Disobedience _hurt_, it hurt so bad. _There were needles and long, thin knives glittering in the light, and the smell of electricity right before the shock._ He clenched his jaw and began to rock back and forth, rhythmically striking his head on the concrete_. I knew him I knew him I knew him _

_Steve._

He blinked hard. Steve? The name was like the dawn, but who was Steve? He focused on Kaptain Amerika…no, _Captain America_…the English letters settled over the Russian ones, fitting into place without gaps, as if they belonged there. Assumptions were often dangerous, but he could not separate _Steve_ and _Captain America _in his mind_._ It seemed probable that they were the same person, but he still didn't understand why he should know either name.

_But I knew him._

He took a shuddering breath as the compulsion faded and the pain subsided. He tried to raise his hand to his face to wipe moisture…sweat? tears?...from his eye, but found that he could only move his right arm a few inches.

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Reevaluation. Mobility unknown. Defensive capability unknown. Airway uncompromised. Head, abdominal and leg injuries still evident but moderate. Right shoulder immobile, immediate attention required.

He held his right elbow securely in his metal left hand, and tried to roll his shoulder forward. It moved a little, but not enough, even after several tries. He balled the metal hand into a fist, and placed it against his ribs, close to his armpit. Pressing his elbow into the wall and leaning against it, he leveraged the bone outward. He felt it overstretch the injured muscles. Something crunched, and he shifted his weight a little more to one side. There was a wet click and a rush of relief as the bone finally slipped into its socket. He tested it carefully, and seemed to have acceptable motion. It would be better to keep it still for a while, if circumstances permitted.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

The alley was not the safest place to hide, but it was the best he'd seen so far. It was probable that he could still outmaneuver civilians, but he had some doubts about how fast he could move in his current condition if he attracted pursuit from HYDRA. Or from SHIELD. After his role in the assassination of the SHIELD director, he was certain that the agency was concentrating on him too, or would be soon.

Neither of them would have him. At least, not until he figured out who Steve was, and why thoughts of that man eased the tense nothingness of his memories before the mission.

He chose a position behind two trash cans that partially blocked direct line-of-sight from outside the alley, but gave him vantage from between them. He placed his back against the wall and pulled his knees into his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He rested his nose against his crossed forearms to obscure as much of his face as possible from moonlight, and sat motionless, watching the gathering shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

The light was growing from black to soft gray.

Rain pattered on his face. He blinked, but did not move. He had not slept, but he had managed to spend several hours resting, letting his mind slip into an unfocused state, while his senses remained vigilant. He would eventually need to sleep, but it would be another day or so before the lack would become problematic.

A soft rustle against one of the trash cans snapped him to full awareness. He quickly weighed his options, and decided that remaining in place would expose him to the least chance of discovery from simple passersby. Flight or combat would remain valid secondary courses of action.. There was another sound, a thump, and the scent of a wet animal. A large dog's head peered around the trash can. It stopped in mid-step, as if surprised to see him. His hands tightened. An image of military dogs flashed before him, walking on leashes with their handlers, a snarling dog that leaped and bit at his arm, sometimes the metal one, sometimes not. It was unlikely that HYDRA or SHIELD would send a dog, but not impossible. It was large and solidly muscular, with a wrinkled face and sloppy jowls. It had short yellow fur and golden eyes that were looking directly into his. He had the distinct impression that the dog was performing its own threat analysis.

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Mobility unknown. Defensive capability unknown. Head, abdominal and leg injuries still evident but moderate. Right shoulder mobile but severely compromised. Prosthetic arm functional.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

In progress. Minimal probability of immediate capture.

Unknown animal, canine: Approximately 60-70 lbs. Musculature concentrated in head and upper body, smaller hindquarters.

Threat Estimate: Undetermined.

Neutralization plan: Open-hand strike to cranium with prosthetic hand. Grip above eye socket and below mandible, crush skull.

He wasn't sure what it meant, but the dog began to wag its tail, and tentatively stepped forward. He took a shallow breath, and quietly positioned his metal hand, but he did not want to risk breaking cover and possibly making a lot of noise until absolutely necessary. The animal came closer, sniffed him experimentally, then sat down beside him.

His training had covered military dogs, guard dogs, and attack dogs. He knew how to evade, disable, or kill a dog. But what action was appropriate when it just sat there and stared at him?

**_Directive Three: REPORT TO ALTERNATE RENDEZVOUS POINT_**

Unable to comply.

_His ears were suddenly filled with the high-pitched whir of a rotating sawblade, and he tried to plead with the doctor in the thick glasses, but there was something in his mouth that kept him from speaking and he could only whimper. _

_Help me, Steve _

A dog barked in the distance.

He gasped and was lying on his side in the muddy alley. It was still raining. It was still morning. He uncoiled himself slowly and sat up. Assess, Evade, Report. Those three directives had evidently been programmed into him in case of mission failure. He was fairly certain that the conditioned punishments were reactivated memories. They were too vivid to have been created artificially, and none of them had resulted in any real-time injury. But that would imply that calling for Steve had actually occurred as well. Why would he have wanted Steve? If Steve was the same as Captain America, hadn't Steve actually tried to kill him? Captain America had beaten him and choked him. He was the enemy.

But then why had he clung to that name? It was important in some way.

He covered his face with both hands. The accumulated physical damage made it difficult to think about anything other than automatically fulfilling the programmed directives, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could resist obeying the third in any case. Even if he did, sooner or later the punishment would wear him down enough to make mistakes, and HYDRA would find him. It would just be later than they'd originally wanted.

Something rough and warm scrubbed his face, near his ear. The dog was licking his cheek. He parted his hands to look. The dog stuck its wet nose into the gap between his fingers and snuffled. He grimaced and pushed the wrinkled face away with his metal hand, recalculating how to crush its head. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill the dog, though. It was not an impediment.

"Boneyyyy!" a man's voice rose and fell from somewhere nearby, to the left. "Where are ya, Yellowbone?"

The dog raised its head, and its ears perked up in the direction of the call. It wagged its tail.

A man appeared at the alley entrance, and stood squinting into the shadows past the trash cans. "Hey, Boney, there you are! You hungry? Whoa…"


	3. Chapter 3

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Mobility compromised. Defensive capability unknown. Head, abdominal and leg injuries still evident but moderate. Right shoulder mobile but severely compromised. Prosthetic arm functional.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

In progress.

Unknown male: Five feet, seven inches, centrally obese, probably over 65 years old. Corrective eyewear, trifocal. Moderate arthritic swelling of joints in both hands. Significant stiffness in right knee.

Threat Estimate: Undetermined. Possibly minimal.

Neutralization plan: Facial strike to remove eyewear. Straight kick to knee. Sweep with right arm to off-balance, follow with opportunistic strike with prosthetic arm.

He leaped into a three-point stance, his metallic arm drawn back to his hip, eyes locked onto the stranger. The toes of his boots ground into the thin mud, gaining traction for an offensive strike.

The strange man immediately took a step back and raised both hands. "Whoa there, Tiger." The man's voice was calm, even though his eyes were wide with evident fear behind his glasses. "I'm not going to hurt you, and hopefully you're not going to hurt me, ok?"

There was enough of a gap on the right side of the alley entrance to allow escape, but he had no idea what enemies might have been placed around the corners. If an attack was not imminent, it would be prudent to determine whether the threat had any allies nearby. The stranger did not glance anywhere that might indicate he had assistance. There were no sounds of footsteps, or sliding gun actions or drawing hand weapons. He did not see any inadvertently cast shadows. The dog's tail was still wagging.

"You're pretty banged up," the strange man observed, squinting. "Do you need help? No questions asked?"

His adrenaline was fading. He shook with tension as he forcibly held his position, refusing to acknowledge his body's clamoring pain signals.

"Yellowbone seems to think you're all right, and he doesn't like everyone. Hell, he don't even like me that much." The man gestured to his right. "I run the soup kitchen, next building over. Are you hungry?"

There were still no signs of anyone else accompanying the stranger. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. He vaguely recalled being offered milk a day or so ago, but had not taken any.

"All right, here's what we'll do. I'll bring you something to eat and leave it here. I'll make enough noise when I come back so you won't think anyone's sneaking up on you, ok?"

It was exactly the type of deception he would expect from a competent HYDRA operative. If he feigned engagement, he might gain an advantage and avoid exposing himself to additional combat injury. When he tried to answer, however, no words would come. He managed to nod a moment later.

"Gimmie ten minutes, and I'll be right back."

The dog trotted after the man, and the two of them turned the corner to the left. He waited until he could no longer hear footsteps, then counted to fifty. Using the trash cans as partial cover and staying low, he looked into the street. Down the block to the left were close-packed, spartan concrete buildings. To the right were a few more of the same kind of structures and the beginning of a weedy vacant lot.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

In progress.

When he was certain that no vehicles or pedestrians were within eyeshot, he broke concealment and ran as fast as he could to a large utility box he had spotted about 100 feet away opposite the alley. He was careful to avoid leaving bootprints in the mud, or stepping in puddles that were deep enough to leave sediment clouds as evidence of his passing. When he reached the relative safety of the new position, he placed both feet on the edge of the concrete slab and crouched low. He had a good view of the trash cans at the front of the alley. He would have preferred something higher up, a rooftop perhaps, but there were no obvious access points and no time to reconnoiter.

A few minutes later, the man cautiously ambled toward the alley, making plenty of noise, as indicated. The man was humming loudly, and tapping a metal tablespoon against everything he passed…a mailbox, a steel handrail, the rusted post of an old sign. The dog was not with him. When he reached the trash cans, the man cleared his throat dramatically. "I'm back. I put Yellowbone inside so you wouldn't have to fight him for it." He leaned down, with a little difficulty from his knee, and placed a knotted plastic bag on the cracked sidewalk. "Just throw them away when you're done. If you want more, come on to the kitchen. If we're closed, just knock, I'll let you in. My name's Ronald Holland, but everybody calls me Ron."

He watched the man…_Ron_…make his way back down the street toward the soup kitchen. A few minutes later, when he was sure it was clear, he dashed back to the alley, snatched up the bag, and huddled behind the trash cans. He stared at the bundle for a minute. It was probably a trick, and eating with possible internal injuries wasn't field protocol. But then, neither was any of this.

The white plastic bag was not suitable for camouflage, but he decided that it might be useful and picked carefully at the knots instead of tearing it. He removed two white Styrofoam containers and a smaller transparent utensil pack and set them aside, then stuffed the bag into a breast pocket. The utensil pack contained a flimsy plastic knife, something that looked like a cross between a fork and a spoon, and a folded square of paper. He studied the writing on two smaller packets that fell out, surprised at first that he could not read them. After a moment's concentration, the English letters began to coalesce into meaning. "Salt" and "Pepper." Salt was essential for electrolyte balance, so he stashed it in his pocket with the bag in case he needed it later. He had no idea what the pepper was for.

The first container he opened held liquid. He smelled it cautiously. It was milk; he'd seen it once before. He took a small sip, tasting for every chemical he had been trained to recognize. Detecting none, he took a mouthful and held it, waiting for any burning or tingling that might indicate a harmful substance. Nothing. He knew he should have waited longer for any ill effects to become apparent, but after the first swallow his stomach growled and begged for more. He ended up bolting down the whole thing.

The second cup was even tougher on his self-control. It smelled like food as soon as he pulled the lid off a rich stew of vegetables and meat. He had no recollection of rations like that, only of some sort of thick slurry, drunk hurriedly. Using the fork-spoon thing, he took a small bite, and groaned out loud, rolling his eyes. Then he scooped the stuff into his mouth as fast as he could, even upending the container and shaking the last drops into his mouth. When they were gone, he broke the Styrofoam and licked every scrap of broth from the pieces.

He felt a little better after he'd finished. He felt less foggy, and he hadn't realized that his hands had been shaking until they had stopped. There had been a sensation in his belly that was worrisome at first. But as time passed, the likelihood of further damage from internal injuries decreased. He tested his shoulder again. The range of motion was acceptable. Moving it was painful, but that was of secondary concern.

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Mobility compromised. Defensive capability unknown. Head, abdominal and leg injuries still evident but moderate. Right shoulder mobile but severely compromised. Prosthetic arm functional.

After assessing the rest of his injuries, noting and cataloging the throbbing headache, the deep aches in his neck and back, and the burning pains across both thighs, he decided to stay put in the alley for the rest of the day. There was little point in overtaxing his body to find new cover. His hiding place had been discovered by pure accident. If Ron was a HYDRA agent, it was probable that he would have been reported and taken by now. But they ultimately didn't need to bother deploying agents to capture him.

All they really had to do was wait for the third directive to break him down, and he'd eventually come to them.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter is short. Staying in Bucky's head is so difficult. Things will get better for him soon, though. (Edited to remove redundant word choice)  
**

**I debated a lot about whether to include the sexual assault memory. But I decided HYDRA would have used it to get the results they wanted. **

* * *

As long as he stayed on the move or in hiding, obedient to the first and second directives, the compulsion to surrender to HYDRA stayed quiet. The relief was minimal. The constant pressure to locate adequate cover and to scout and evaluate evasion routes left him no time to rest or forage. But since he had no clear mobilization orders other than to proceed to the assigned extraction point, he found himself circling the vicinity of the crashed helicarriers. They were still burning five days after he'd failed to neutralize Captain America. He'd watched fireboats circling, arcing jets of water and foam onto the smoking wreckage. Other vessels, smaller ones, carried crews of divers to the extinguished edges. He was too far away to observe much detail, but he could see that the returning boats were laden with body bags.

Had Steve had been rescued from the riverbank, or was he in one of those bags?

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

In progress.

He was in motion before he could think any more about it.

He found shelter under the drape of a badly fastened tarp at a construction site, huddled into the slight space between it and a nearly completed cinder block wall. A little relatively clean rainwater had collected in the dips and folds of the tarp, which he funneled carefully into a cupped hand. It tasted like plastic and concrete dust, but wasn't contaminated enough to prove a hazard to his enhanced immune system.

He fished the paper package of salt out of his breast pocket , tore off a corner, and tapped a very small amount into his palm. After folding and replacing the packet so as not to lose any of the precious contents, he sucked the salt from his hand. Then he let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes briefly. He needed to sleep, but he did not feel safe enough to let it happen, not even enough to allow himself to unfocus. Everything startled him…footsteps across the street, a distant car horn, a couple of kids laughing as they passed. The constant stress was exhausting, undoubtedly by design.

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Recovery in progress, impaired by inadequate nutriment intake. Mobility approximately 55% of capacity. Head, abdominal and leg injuries evident but improved. Right shoulder motion acceptable. Prosthetic arm functional.

…Tired.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

No, please…

**_Directive Three: REPORT TO ALTERNATE RENDEZVOUS POINT_**

Unable to comply. _Right arm shackled, prosthetic arm taken away. They had warned him that resisting would make it worse, but the hot breath on his neck and the hands everywhere drove him to panic. He struggled and fought and eventually cried. Blood ran down his forearm from twisting in the restraint._

He was on his back, gulping air in gasps and dry sobs.

**_Directive Three: REPORT TO ALTERNATE RENDEZVOUS POINT_**

Unable… _There was a name on his lips, someone he barely recalled, whose face was little more than the outline of an obliterated image. There was a terrible emptiness from where that person had been ripped that opened into a yawning void that had been _everything.

His metal hand dug hard enough through the mud to crack the concrete foundation.

**_Directive Three: REPORT TO ALTERNATE RENDEZVOUS POINT_**

No!

_Then wipe him and start over._

His back arched, as he fought to suppress screams.

_But I knew him!_

His right hand contacted softness. There was warmth along his ribs. At first, he couldn't control his body long enough to even open his eyes. When he finally did, bright spots flashed in his vision and he could barely see. The yellow dog was lying along his side, staring at him with an inscrutable expression.

Dazed, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. He couldn't stay here. SHIELD agents were taking up positions all around. If he listened hard enough, he could hear them breathing. Their shadows whisked across the rooftops. When HYDRA finally launched its assault, he would not be able to mount an effective defense in his present condition.

The pain intensified beyond endurance and his resistance broke.

He stumbled out of the alley. The dog trotted briskly down the street. He estimated that he did not have enough reserve to reach the mapped rendezvous point, so he selected an alternative from the limited options.

**_Directive Three: REPORT TO ALTERNATE RENDEZVOUS POINT_**

Complying.


	5. Chapter 5

He stood shivering on the steps, even though his body was not cold. HYDRA was on the other side of the door. They would punish him and shock the disobedience out of his brain, but the end result promised relief from memory and pain. All he had to do was knock, and the agent inside would take him into custody.

_But Steve will be gone._

He still didn't know why Steve was important. No matter how hard he tried, he could not remember anything more than the name and distant, unfamiliar sensations, like putting anesthetic balm on wounds, or feeling better after eating stew.

Though his hand seemed to weigh more than the all of metal in his arm, he knocked.

He heard muttering and shuffling as someone moved around. The door opened with a creak. Ron stared at him with open-mouthed shock, and then adjusted his glasses. "Oh, my God, what happened to you?"

He answered out loud, but the old man just blinked, obviously not understanding. He closed his eyes and struggled to articulate in English. "I…I surrender to HYDRA." He raised his hands to demonstrate that he had no weapons.

Ron studied him for a moment with an expression that he could not place. "Come inside," he said finally, opening the door the rest of the way. The yellow dog darted ahead and stood waiting for them, its level gaze fixing on each of them in turn. Ron said, "Follow me."

He couldn't seem to hold still. Every muscle in his body trembled and he was too tired to think. But now that he'd given himself over to HYDRA, he didn't have to. He followed Ron dumbly, and sat down where it was indicated that he should. It was a soft place, but he didn't dare to notice any other details. A machine whirred somewhere nearby, but he did not react to the sound. A few minutes later, a glass container of thick fluid was placed in his right hand. "Drink this," Ron said. "It's just a protein shake, but you don't look like you could handle much more right now. I hope you like chocolate."

He had to use both hands to keep the glass steady enough to bring to his lips. It didn't matter what flavor it was, in fact he hardly tasted it. HYDRA could give him battery acid and he would drink it without question. He did not raise his eyes when Ron took the empty glass from him.

"All right. I want you to lie back on the bed and sleep, if you can. Take as long as you need. I'll be around when you wake up, just make some noise if you don't see me."

Even as he complied with the order, he experienced a flicker of surprise. He had expected to be incapacitated, or at least restrained. Ron hadn't even closed the door behind him. Left alone, he took the opportunity to observe his surroundings. The room was small and windowless, probably an interior room in the building. It was painted a familiar institutional green, with a photographic poster on the wall of a mountain that overlooked a field of trees and green grass. The bed was metal-framed, and topped with a firm mattress. He was lying on a colorful patchwork quilt.

Occasional sounds filtered into the room, each jarring him to alarmed awareness. There were voices in muffled conversation, one of which he was sure was Ron's. There was a laugh, which he was sure was someone else. He choked back a yelp at a loud metallic clang, and realized that his metal hand had begun to twist the steel bedframe. He released it quickly, before he could damage HYDRA equipment.

He'd failed to neutralize Kaptain Amerika, and now he was even failing a simple order to sleep. The thought of being corrected made his bones ache. When HYDRA found him non-compliant, they would beat him to unconsciousness, and he thought he would welcome it.

There was a nudge at his right elbow. The dog pushed its nose under his hand and rested its heavy jaw on the edge of the bed. Golden eyes regarded him solemnly. He had no orders concerning the dog, so he did not move or take his hand away. It did not move either, except to lick its jowls once. He recalled blindly following it out of the alley when he'd been too compromised to navigate to the alternate rendezvous point. The animal's presence was reassuring in some way, and he was glad he hadn't killed it. His heart rate began to slow, and his muscular tension gradually calmed. It was quiet now. He thought he might be able to…


	6. Chapter 6

It had been so long since he'd awakened from natural sleep that he was disoriented. Was it morning? No, fluorescent light overhead illuminated the room. His eyes were gritty, and his mouth was dry. At some point, the dog had climbed onto the bed, and lay passed out next to him, its head flopped over his right arm. He tried to sit up, but the dog's bulk made it difficult. Finally, he poked at its haunch with a metal finger until it opened its eyes and gave him a disapproving look. Then its ears pricked up, and in response to some sound outside human auditory range, it jumped off the bed and jogged into the hallway.

Ron had ordered him to make some noise when he woke, and he was in the process of determining what would be acceptable, when the old man appeared in the doorway. "Hey, wild man, you're up! I saw Boney coming out and figured you were. Are you feeling any better?"

**_Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Recovery in progress. Mobility approximately 75% of capacity. Head, abdominal and leg injuries healing satisfactorily. Right shoulder motion acceptable. Prosthetic arm functional.

Some pain still registered when he moved, and his cognitive functioning was slow but greatly improved. He was service-ready, if that's what the question meant. One or two-word status inquires were the only kind he knew how to answer. There were too many layers of possibility for him to form a verbal response, so he just nodded. "Good!" said Ron, looking genuinely pleased. "Food service is over for today, so we'll be able to get you fixed up. First order of business, are you hungry? You've been asleep for ten hours."

Ten hours? His blood rushed cold. He didn't remember ever being allowed to sleep that long. Short naps when he had been too fatigued to continue training had been all…those had always been preceded by beatings and he'd always been slapped awake. How had he slept so long? Ron was looking at him again with that same expression he did not understand. Expecting to be struck, he winced involuntarily.

"Listen to me," Ron said, his voice more gentle. "No one is going to hurt you here. Nod if you understand."

He understood the words. He nodded.

"If you want to sleep, or just be alone for a while, you can come back to this room at any time. If you need anything, just get my attention. You can call my name, or if you can't speak, knock on something. Understand? Nod if you do."

He'd been tricked into breaking discipline with words like that during training, and had been punished severely. He wanted to obey Ron, but he didn't know which set of orders to follow, and it confused him, but he nodded. The headache ground behind his eyes, but revealing such a minor thing would earn correction.

Ron didn't say anything else for a minute. He dropped his eyes, acutely aware that he was being watched. Then Ron asked, "Do you remember how to use a shower? You do? Good, because honestly, you stink like river mud and burned oil and who knows what else." The old man took a few stiff steps that favored his arthritic knee. "It's down the hall and to the right. The towel in there is clean. I've already put some clothes for you on the shelf in there. Take your time, and if you have any questions, just knock on the wall. I'll be listening in case."

He didn't remember having used a shower before, but the knowledge was there as soon as he entered the bathroom. Stripped of his body armor and uniform, he was able to visualize the extent of his injuries for the first time. His right shoulder was swollen and discolored, purple at the top of the bone and layered in blotches of red and green down his bicep and forearm. More colorful bruises, in various stages of healing, covered his torso. The skin across the knuckles of his right hand was torn, but he didn't remember what had done that. Where his legs had been crushed under the frame of the helicarrier, one had been split open from mid-thigh to past the knee but it was knitting well. Wide red and purple stripes crossed both of his upper legs. Something had pierced his armor and one calf was stippled in mostly-healed cuts and scrapes. He couldn't see his neck or his back. He gingerly touched his head, and his hair was matted over what had been a deep wound.

Two handles and a round knob took a few minutes to figure out. The middle one started the water. The handles were marked with letters, but he didn't know what they meant. He turned one halfway, and stepped under the spray. The water was so cold it took his breath away, but it was endurable. He soaked himself until the grime and dried blood began to loosen. Some white soap was nearby; he spread lather over his face and body and clumsily washed his hair. With his jaw locked against the frigid water, he rinsed himself until it ran clear.

The metal arm required no special attention. He washed it anyway it so Ron wouldn't have to administer correction if it smelled offensive.

HYDRA had expected him to be clean-shaven between missions. There were several recognizable shaving tools nearby, so he assumed the prior orders must still be in effect. He selected an electric one to avoid opening any recently healed abrasions on his face, and circled it carefully over sore spots as he discovered them. He didn't know whether he should do anything about his long hair. It hadn't mattered much to HYDRA before, and no obvious tools had been provided for cutting it. He left it alone.

The clothes were of soft materials that did not aggravate his wounds. There was a dark blue shirt with long sleeves that was large for him around the chest, and loose denim trousers. Both had signs of previous wear, but were clean. No instructions had been given about the disposition of his uniform, so he folded it as neatly as he could and put it on the shelf, then stacked the assemblage of muddy armor pieces on top of it.

When he had finished, he went back to the room with the bed. The patchwork quilt had been changed for another one that looked almost furry and so soft he was hesitant to touch it. He heard Ron come in behind him, and quickly turned to face him. "Do you like that?" Ron asked. "It's from Korea, called a "mink" blanket, if I remember rightly. It's for you to use. The quilt had mud all over it." He held up a glass containing a frothy pink mixture. "Another shake, strawberry this go-around. If that sits well, we can try some real food next time. Drink up."

The thought of real food made his stomach growl, but Ron probably knew better. HYDRA always did. He drank it quickly, not noticing much difference in taste from the last one. He handed the empty glass back to Ron. Ron regarded him with his gray brows furrowed. "You still look pretty beat. If you need to rest, you don't have to ask permission, just do it. You are under no restrictions."

No restrictions? The concept was foreign and did not fit anywhere into the experiences he remembered. This was all new, and trying to understand was exhausting. The cold shower had temporarily relieved his bruises, but he was beginning to feel them again, and he felt like he wanted to lie down. He bit his lip in anticipation of punishment, and nodded.

Ron smiled. "It's ok, seriously. Do you want the light off?"

He didn't know. He'd slept ten hours with the light on, so he shook his head to indicate it could stay on.

When Ron left, he lay on his back on the furry blanket for a while, rubbing the fingertips of his right hand against the softness. _It feels good._ He hadn't remembered the word before, or even what "good" was like before now. He rolled himself up in the blanket to feel more of the _good, _and it was so heavy and warm that he had no trouble falling asleep this time.


	7. Chapter 7

The dog…_Boney_…was back in bed with him when he woke. It had insinuated itself under the Korean blanket and had stretched out along his shins. It didn't wait to be poked, however, and jumped down without prompting as soon as he sat up. The rest had finally allowed his body to start to heal. He was still generally sore, and had yet to recover all of his strength, but it was a vast improvement compared to the last few days. He recognized the feeling in his belly as hunger, and he wondered with some lingering anxiety how long he'd been asleep this time.

He found that some shoes had been left beside the door, and he put them on. They were strange after wearing standard-issue boots, but they seemed stable and protective enough after he'd tied the laces. Boney had been waiting in the doorway. When the dog saw him stand, it padded down the hallway in the opposite direction of the bathroom, and nosed through a swinging door. There was a hum of noise as the door opened that silenced abruptly as it closed. He wasn't confident about leaving the bedroom, even though Ron had said there were no restrictions. But he followed the dog.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

Exterior room. Dimensions: 70-foot street frontage, 50 feet wide. Two points of entry, unsecured double doors at each, frontage side. One-way exit door on north side, south side abutting next building. Securable door to origin point. No windows. No visible roof access. Possible cover behind service counter. Forty-one occupants, civilian.

The smell of food that washed over him made his stomach leap and his mouth water. People, mostly men, sat at long tables, conversing over plates and bowls of food. A few rose to carry used utensils to one end of the metal counter that spanned one long side of the room. One man slouched back in his chair with a baseball cap perched over his face, obviously asleep. Another spoke loudly to no one, his speech punctuated with passionate hand motions.

Ron was at one of the double doors. He came over right away. "Back to the living, I see. I was just letting Boney out. I'll throw some scraps at him later. I bet you're ready to eat now, though?" He gestured to a seat that was somewhat apart from the others, at the same table with the sleeping man. "Come sit down over here, I'll bring you some eats." Then Ron bent down and said more quietly, "I've told the staff to leave you alone for now. Food service will be over in about an hour, and this place will clear out. If you need to leave, you don't have to say anything, just go through the same door you came in."

As Ron left and headed toward the counter, he kept his eyes fixed on the tabletop. A few minutes later, Ron returned with a plate of food and a large glass of milk. "Let's try something simple to start with," he said. "Peas and some mashed potatoes, and meatloaf. Well, this meatloaf isn't world-class or anything. It looks like crap, but I've declared it edible. Go ahead and eat. If you want more, let me know."

The meatloaf looked like a vaguely familiar slab of protein before it had been liquefied into his standard ration. Once Ron had given permission to eat, he lifted a bit with the fork. The taste took him by complete surprise. He sat motionless with his eyes closed and held the first bite in his mouth for a while as the savory taste traveled over his tongue. He let out a slow breath that he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. Ron chuckled. "That was almost a smile! Best endorsement I've ever had for that recipe."

He made a silent promise that he would not scream or cry or do anything that annoyed the handlers during the punishment that was coming for resisting surrender, if only HYDRA would let him keep this memory of how _meatloaf _tasted.

After the second swallow, he didn't bother with the fork.

When food service had finished, Ron came back with several paper napkins, and laughing, told him to wipe his face and hands. Everyone except the sleeping man had departed.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

Unknown male: Six feet, zero inches, body habitus indeterminate due to multiple layers of clothing.

Threat Estimate: Undetermined. Possibly minimal.

Neutralization plan: Metal chair across head while recumbent. Opportunistic strike with prosthetic arm.

"Oh, he's here a lot," Ron said, following his glance. "Half the time he doesn't even want to eat, just grabs some winks here where it's safe. Do you feel like talking? I have some questions, and I'm sure you have some too."

He wasn't sure whether he could communicate, but didn't understand why it mattered if he felt like it. He would try because HYDRA had questions. He couldn't look at Ron, but he nodded.

"All right." Ron thought for a moment. "Do you remember your name?"

_Name? Rank…service number?_ The words rose like some sort of painless automatic programming, then dissipated almost as soon as they came. He hesitated and shook his head.

"Do you remember the helicarrier?"

He remembered everything that had happened on the helicarrier, it just didn't always make sense. He'd followed intelligence and tracked his target to the launch site, neutralized hostile personnel en route, and visually plotted his path to the carrier's inner core deck. A man in a self-propelled flight harness had attempted to stop him; he'd rendered that threat inoperative as well. Then he noticed Kaptain Amerika attempting operations on the core. But the target existed as a strange double image, even though he'd had no head injury at the time. He was Kaptain Amerika and…someone else. Someone smaller, more childlike. It had rattled him so much that he could not completely follow through on his calculated neutralization plan. He had struck, but was surprised when the blows had not possessed lethal force. He had shot, but had failed to cluster the bullets properly on vital spots. He even had the chip that his enemy had been defending with his life in his possession. Even with a broken arm, even unconscious, he would never have released it. He would have thrown it from the carrier first.

The target had actually lifted the fallen girders from his crushed legs, and he'd attempted to finish his mission. But then…_I'm with you till the end of the line. _What did that… Why? He'd tried to complete the mission, really tried. He'd even beaten Kaptain Amerika unconscious, but the double image had persisted through the punches and the blood. One was Kaptain Amerika and the other was…Steve?

Ron said, "It's all right. I can see from your face that there's more going on than you can say. If that happens and you just can't answer, tap on the table three times. And remember, you can always go back to the bedroom if it gets to be too much."

His right hand was shaking. He curled his fingers into his palm and gave three soft raps.

"Still with me? Ok. This isn't a mapped alternate rendezvous point. How did you know to come here?"

Ron had found him in the alley, and given him food. It was likely that SHIELD would have attempted immediate apprehension, and civilians would have simply called local law enforcement. Neither had happened. Only a HYDRA agent would have left him alone with orders where to go if he needed additional assistance. He'd been in so much pain from his injuries and from resisting the third directive that he didn't remember exactly how he'd gotten to the soup kitchen. He gave a small shrug, shaking his head.

"Do you want to try to ask me anything?"

He did, but he wasn't sure how. Words buzzed and tumbled between his brain and his mouth, creating fragments of of Russian and English and garbled emptiness that no speech could fill. Finally he focused as hard as he could and pointed a finger at Ron. "Steve?" he asked, his voice sounding strange and small.

Ron looked startled. "Do I know Steve Rogers?"

He pressed his lips together and nodded, expecting at least a slap, even though he'd been given permission to ask.


	8. Chapter 8

_They shoved the newspapers under his nose and pressed his face into them. They played English-language radio broadcasts over and over until he sobbed and begged. They made him repeat it himself, using an electric prod each time he stumbled on the words._ "_Steve is dead." _

But if Steve was dead, who had he dragged out of the river? He'd not even remembered the name until then. Who was Steve? HYDRA would know. It was worth any punishment to ask, any at all. He struggled to slow his breathing as his fist helplessly drummed the tabletop.

Ron folded his hands in front of his stomach. "I don't know him personally, of course. But I know of him. Captain America…Steve Rogers… was all over the news after what happened in New York. Seems like a real stand-up kind of guy." The old man's face was thoughtful, and he appeared to reach a decision. "He's looking for you, you know. He wants to help you."

Steve was alive. Steve was looking for him.

His ears roared; his body locked against a sickening sensation that he was falling. There should be snow, why wasn't there any snow? There was something on his face, and he raised his hand, expecting to see blood. His fingertips were wet but not red, and he blinked at them, not understanding. Tears were not unfamiliar. He'd cried before, but from pain, not from anything like this that he could remember. His chest felt tight. He'd forgotten to breathe.

Ron's warning seemed to come from far away. "He's going to pass out!"

The man who had been sleeping at the table swiped the cap from his face and sat up straight. "Bucky?"

He was on his feet in an instant. The chair squealed and clattered behind him.

**_Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE_**

Target Identifed: Kaptain Amerika.

Threat Estimate: Maximum.

Neutralization plan: Close distance to avoid thrown shield. Strike at known previous damage, estimate effect. Proceed with opportunistic strikes.

He stepped inside the target's arm span and pivoted, turning the narrowest part of his body to his opponent. The target deflected his first blow across a hastily lifted forearm. His followup strike with his prosthetic arm connected solidly with the soft tissue under Kaptain Amerika's ribcage. The target doubled over with a sharp grunt.

"Rogers!" he heard Ron shout. The name made him hesitate, and his next strike that should have been lethal only rebounded from target's raised upper arm. There was no shield.

"Don't, Ron," the target wheezed, clearly injured. "Buck, it's Steve. It's me."

He froze in mid-assault, arm drawn back. Steve? Kaptain Amerika was the target, not Steve. He had no instructions… The target was looking at him searchingly, both him and the double image of the much younger man. They looked different, but where their eyes superimposed, they were obviously the same person_. I knew him._ It had to be a trick, some sort of deception. He snarled and plowed his fist squarely into the middle of Kaptain Amerika's face.

The target was down. "I won't give up on you, Bucky," he groaned. He dropped his arms and lay flat on his back, exposed, completely defenseless. Blood gushed from the man's nose and flowed toward the floor.

_He sagged in the chair, conscious but graying in and out. His face was bruised and swollen over fractured bones. His mouth was full of blood, and it streamed from his nose. The handler absently wiped the baton across his pantleg, adding an additional smear of red. _

_I can't I can't I can't…Help me, Steve_

"Help me, Steve," he echoed softly. His words were little more than whispers, but Kaptain Amerika's…_no, Captain America's_…eyes brightened and he tentatively stretched out an open hand.

_The doctor pulled the last stitch tight, and then caressed his sweaty face with a cool hand. "That's very good, you didn't make any noise at all."_

Unable to endure more, he hurdled over the long table and fled. Reaching one of the kitchen's double exit doors, he slammed his shoulder into it and barreled through into the street. He sprinted hard, lungs burning, not counting the miles. Eventually he came to a dead end. A dumpster loomed to his left; he scrambled on top of it and leaped onto a nearby rooftop. He ran across the black asphalt as fast as he could, jumping over the gaps between buildings. The blank wall of an abutting taller row jutted into the space above him. He launched himself up, caught the edge of the roof and hoisted his body over the bevel. When he found the end of that row, he brought himself up short, panting, looking frantically for a way down.

"Bucky, we can talk here, or farther on, it's up to you."

He spun and faced Captain America. He couldn't run any more. His knees buckled, and he sat down heavily.

Steve dropped next to him, also catching his breath. They were silent for a few minutes. Finally, Steve said, "It's a good thing I had that time in the hospital after all, or I wouldn't have been able to keep up with you."


	9. Chapter 9

He sat quietly with his eyes down, as he had been trained, but he could not control the random tremors that that rose from his chest and escaped as shudders of voiceless sound.

"We used to come to places like this, Buck, rooftops. We'd pretend they were beaches, when we couldn't go to the real ones. We'd spread out a blanket and just lay in the sun like a couple of turtles. When we wanted to see girls, we'd look over the edge and sometimes we'd see them. It wasn't quite the same, but it was pretty nice. Wow, we sure got some sunburns, though. And it got hot up there."

Steve paused, and seemed to be waiting. Orders to attempt a reply had not been issued, but he risked a nod to show that he was listening.

"Mr. Mazurski's store had a wooden porch with some shade under it," Steve rambled. "Sometimes we went there in the summer, when it was just too ridiculously hot for anywhere else. You joked once that you'd seen a snake, and watched me search all over for it. Well, until I found that real snake skin. I picked it up and threw it at you and you turned white as chalk." He chuckled. "Do you remember that, Bucky?"

He didn't. It felt _good_ to hear Steve talk about it, but none of it came to him at all.

"It's all right if you don't remember. I can remember enough for both of us. Sometimes that's all I can do. I get up in the morning and nothing looks like it should. Nothing tastes right, clothes don't even feel right. People talk, and I don't understand half of what they say, because it's all from movies or shows or things that I haven't seen. Just having a conversation means having to do a load of homework later. But you're here and it's ok if you don't remember, because you did at one point." Steve's voice was steady and calm, but he rubbed the back of his wrist across one eye.

"Buck, you were my friend when I had no one, and stayed my friend when I suddenly had a whole lot of them. I know what they did to you…most of it. Right after the files were leaked, I read as many of them as I could stand before I had to quit and go break stuff. If you only have one percent of yourself left, that would be enough. Less, even, because James Buchanan Barnes was a good man, and I think you still are."

He didn't know whether Steve was right or not about whether he was anyone at all. Those confusing tears that did not come from pain pressed his eyelids. He held them in, because they did not come from punishment, and he didn't want to make the mistake again of letting this kind fall without being given permission.

"Ron told you I wanted to help you. I want that more than anything. I know a place in New York where we can go, where there are people who will understand. Clint and Natasha and Bruce and Tony…well, maybe not Tony so much. I dunno, it depends. I can't make you come with me, and I wouldn't if I could. But I want you to. Let me help you. Please."

He very much wanted to speak, to tell Steve what was churning inside him, but his lips moved, without forming a single sentence. Steve waited with infinite patience, and did not interrupt his efforts. "Scared, Steve," was all he managed to force out. He thumped his closed fist gently over his breastbone three times. Six times. Nine. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, too frustrated and worn to try to communicate further.

"I know. We'll figure it out, though. We always did."

Ron was wringing pink water into a mop bucket when they came back to the kitchen. The old man straightened with an anxious expression, but relaxed quickly. "Two went out, two came back. No one's dead, everyone's in one piece…I was worried there for a while."

"No, we're both fine, as fine as we get."

"Ain't that the truth?" Ron snorted.

"I want to thank you for calling in, Ron. I know it was tough going there for a while."

"I didn't get my face punched in, so there's that. I tell you, though, I about jumped out of my socks when I saw him pop up in that alley. Not too many homeless guys with high-tech metal arms running around out there. I knew something was up." He shrugged. "When I saw the news later, I was sure of it. About dropped my uppers when he turned up on my doorstep and surrendered to me."

Not HYDRA? Ron's admission stunned him. He choked out a cough that might have been an exclamation of surprise, and then pointed at Ron, feeling a slow chill.

Ron laughed. "You made a mistake, but it wasn't the one HYDRA was driving you to make. No, I'm not a HYDRA agent. There's a good reason why you assumed I was, though. They say you're never "ex-SHIELD," just "former SHIELD," and I guess it's true, even a retired old gripe like me. Fury owed me a favor after Colombia, and as soon as I saw you in the alley, I figured it was time to call it in."

Steve said, "It's a good thing you didn't call the police."

"Bah. One look at him, and I knew that would just end up in a bunch of dead cops. No, he had to be brought in, but not by force." The gruff tone dropped from his voice. "Listen to me, Bucky. That back room with the bed is still open to you, any time, if you ever need it. Just knock and I'll let you in. But I don't think you will." He turned to Steve with a wry smile. "Be sure you feed him enough. He sure does like to eat."

"He always did." Steve's smile was bright, like the dawn. "Are you ready to go, Buck?"

He scanned the room, missing something. Then he remembered, clearly and without pain. He went through the swinging door to the area away from the kitchen and followed the hallway back to the bedroom. Boney lay snoozing in the middle of the Korean blanket. The dog raised its head when it saw him, and thumped its tail. He…_Bucky_…wrapped his arms around the yellow dog and buried his face in the thick neck.

**The End**

* * *

**Thank you all very much! Your support is awesome, and helped me to the finish line.**


End file.
